


To Remember

by AnabielVriskaMars



Category: Miraculous Ladybug
Genre: Aged-Up Character(s), F/M, Fluff, Post-superhero, Romance, a bit of hurt, adding them as I go along I guess, i dont even know
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-26
Updated: 2020-10-06
Packaged: 2021-03-06 23:53:34
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,875
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26127562
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AnabielVriskaMars/pseuds/AnabielVriskaMars
Summary: She forgot, but he'll make her remember.After giving up the Miraculouses, Marinette forgets everything regarding them, including the most important part, with the most important person.But when bits and pieces of her diary as a superhero begin appearing on her mailbox, she doesn't know what to think as she regroups with faces of her past.
Relationships: Adrien Agreste | Chat Noir/Marinette Dupain-Cheng | Ladybug
Comments: 29
Kudos: 78





	1. To Forget

**Author's Note:**

> Helloooooo naughty children.
> 
> It is *I*, your fave weirdo. 
> 
> Today, I have brought you a collab work I've been doing with Jagati. It was her brilliant idea. I hope you guys enjoy it! Frankly, I'm sort of proud of this chapter, its been *ages* since I've wrote fanfic, and it honestly feels like coming back home after a long trip.
> 
> So! Here goes nothing!

The lights had never been blinding. Not to him.

Adrien sauntered down the catwalk in his father’s latest designs quite naturally, as was expected. The lights overhead focused solely on him, and he had grown rather tired of it. From this height, he couldn’t see the audience, but they could always see him.

He supposed that was business as usual.

As he turned on his heel on his final step, he caught a glimpse—the fastest, most casual glimpse—of a polka-dotted dress. Unconsciously, he did a double take that almost sent him sprawling across the stage, but the cat-like reflexes that he still had saved him, and the public was none the wiser.

He hurried backstage and, breath caught, looked out through the curtains, desperately looking for that glimpse—that tiny promise—that had been keeping him alive these years.

A woman in the front row searched through her purse—a red purse with black polka dots in the shape of a ladybug that had been all the rage for the past ten years and never seemed to run out of style.

Adrien felt his muscles relax in the worst of ways as he sighed dejectedly and went to the tailor for his next ensemble.

* * *

Champagne was had, as was tradition, after the show.

People he’d never before seen greeted him like they were lifelong friends, and Adrien could do nothing save smile and wave. After all these years, he had managed to make the gesture much less awkward, and now he could _almost_ believe that he wasn’t bored out of his skull at the same frivolous stories heard for the twelfth time.

“—look, here he is—Adrien!”

Adrien cringed. Although his back was turned, Adrien just _knew_ that Monsieur Benoit was smiling broadly and gesturing towards him. Every time he called Adrien, it felt like being a museum piece in display—one that belonged to Benoit’s collection.

But, much to his chagrin, Benoit was part of the board of directors of his father’s company, so Adrien had to paint on his best smile and play nice. He took a deep breath and closed the space between himself and the two people Benoit was speaking to, a greeting hanging from his lips.

“Mons—”

Blue.

Just blue.

His breath didn’t catch in his throat—it never even made it to his mouth. Everything inside Adrien was void of oxygen and reason as Adrien _drilled_ into that perfect shade of summer-sky-blue that he had missed so, _so_ —

“Adrien, you made it!” Benoit exclaimed as he clapped Adrien on the shoulder harder than was strictly necessary. “Listen, let me introduce you, this is Madame Christine, from _Voila!_ And her assistant—I’m sorry, I’m afraid I didn’t catch your name.”

Her lips pulled back like a curtain parts, until he could see just the edge of pearly white teeth peeking out and she _smiled—_

“Marinette.”

Adrien must have taken a second to reply, since he felt Benoit’s vice grip tighten on his shoulder.

“Yes, I—” He spluttered, and Marinette tilted her head to the side a little, squinting mildly. Adrien’s mouth stopped moving—hell, his heart stopped beating entirely—as he waited for that flicker of recognition come, and the look of confidence overtake her and become a wildfire.

“We went to Collège together, right?”

That’s it. Those were the words.

Adrien always wondered what the words that would break him would be.

_We went to Collège together, right?_

For a brief, express moment, Adrien considered reaching inside his ribcage and ripping his own heart out—that would’ve hurt less, he gathered.

“Yes,” Adrien gave her a patented smile—a smile he had carefully crafted to keep his own self afloat during events such as these.

And right now, that smile was what he was holding on for dear life.

“Oh, _Marinette!_ You’re telling me that you went to collège with _Adrien Agreste_ and you never mentioned it! Really girl, for _shame_!” Madame Christine cried, but Adrien could see her heart wasn’t in it. In a moment, she had fallen back into conversation with Benoit, and Adrien was left alone with a twisted tongue and what was most likely his still beating heart on the floor, crushed under the high heels of dozens of models and tycoons’ wooden soles.

She laughed a little and rubbed her neck, the way she always had when she was nervous. It was hard to believe that someone like _her_ could be nervous or self-conscious about _anything_ , but Adrien understood.

“So, uh,” Marinette began, fiddling her fingers awkwardly. “You—you’re Gabriel’s son, right?”

Every word out of her mouth was a new dagger digging deep beneath his skin in the cruelest of ways, and she didn’t even know.

 _Yes, and you’re the love of my life,_ he wanted to say.

“Yes, and you’re Madame Christine’s assistant?” he asked instead.

“Well—yes,” she didn’t deflate, but Adrien could see the almost imperceptible changes in her demeanor that no one else would ever catch—the tension in her shoulders, the crease on the outer edge of her left eye, the fiddling of the earring that was not a Miraculous. Those were the changes that told him when Marinette was uncomfortable with something.

He could’ve ended the conversation there. Ended it, and walked away. And he should have.

He should have let her go back to Madame Christine and back to her life and ruffle no feathers—but going back to a world without her, to a world without _his lady_ —it was too much for him.

“If I remember correctly, you were into fashion, right? Did you decide it was better to work for a magazine?” Of course he knew the answer! He knew _everything!_ He just wanted her words and her voice and her inflection. He wanted her brow to crease when she ranted away at an explanation that was probably overdone, and he wanted the nervous laugh that always followed the final apology.

“Well—no. Actually, I—”

“Marinette,” called Madame Christine, and Adrien felt a flash of undeserved irritation at her. “Darling, its time to go, don’t keep me waiting.”

Madame Christine turned to Adrien and smiled a full 32-surgically-fixed-toothed smile and worked the feather that had fallen in front of her face back into her hat.

“ _Adrien_ , dear, it was so marvelous to see you,” she said superfluously. “Hopefully I’ll see you soon?”

Something in his chest tightened. His palms started sweating. Panic started rising.

No, _no no_.

He couldn’t let her go, not yet! He had to do something, he had to—

“Well, would you like an interview?” he smiled as charmingly as his body would allow him. “I mean, I’m not trying to presume anything, but—”

“Oh, but that would be _wonderful!_ ” Madame Christine squealed. “I’ll have Marinette call you during the week for details! Now off we go, toodles!”

Adrien felt the broken pieces of his self on the floor be washed away by the wind as Marinette walked away. She had given him a small, uncertain wave, and that was that.

So much history, but that was that.

“Well, if I had known all it took to get your attention was a pretty girl, I would’ve sent for one myself!”

Adrien almost jumped backwards at the sound of Benoit’s voice. To be completely fair, he had entirely erased the existence of that man from his brain, and his return was nothing short of an irritating fly.

“She’s not just a pretty girl,” Adrien found himself mumbling.

“Ah, I see! Well, that is not a problem, my boy. Feelings like that come and go! Soon you’ll find yourself another pretty little thing to keep your attention! Now come, come! Let us meet the other designers!”

Adrien spent the rest of the afternoon searching in vain for that shock of black hair, but didn’t find it again.

* * *

“I saw Marinette today,” Adrien’s words were out of his mouth even before his foot had stepped inside Nino’s apartment, and it was quickly followed by Adrien himself, who passed by a Nino with his mouth hung open.

“Uh, hi Adrien. Good to see you too, man.”

Adrien ran his hands through his hair and sighed. “I’m sorry, I just can’t stop thinking about it.”

Nino closed the door and followed Adrien into the living room. “Are you sure it was her, man? Cause you’ve been ‘spotting Marinette’” he airquoted, “for the past seven years.”

Adrien dropped to the couch and rested his elbows on his knees, gesturing as he spoke.

“No, Nino I _saw_ her. I spoke to her.”

“Oh.”

“’Oh?’ What do you mean, ‘oh?’ This is huge!” Adrien stood up again and began pacing across the room. Nino scratched his head and looked away. Adrien started.

“ _You knew!”_ he accused.

Nino had the good grace to look ashamed. “Alya… wrote to me, a few weeks ago. That Mari was coming back.”

“Why didn’t you say anything?”

“Because I knew you’d get like this!” Nino gestured at Adrien entirely. “Look at you! Look how worked up you are! You haven’t even taken off that dumb make-up they put on you during the shows!”

Adrien hesitated and brought a hand to his face. Indeed, it was caked with foundation. He shook his head.

“Still! You should have told me! She’s back, that means—”

“That means what, exactly? She still doesn’t remember you, you know. And you can’t exactly walk up to her and go ‘oh hey, fancy meeting you here! Say, do you remember when we were teenage superheroes saving Paris everyday? Ah shucks, of course you don’t, your memory was obliterated!’”

Adrien stopped pacing. “I—”

He felt Nino’s hand on his shoulder. “Look bro, I’m sorry. I didn’t know how to tell you.” Nino stepped back and fixed his glasses. “You know you can’t just tell her, it would blow up her brain or something.”

Adrien dropped to the couch again and rubbed his face. He knew. Of course he knew.

The risks of giving someone their Miraculous memories back were far too high. The book had said so.

But still, it was _Marinette_. She was _back_. Surely that meant something?

“But… we’re destined, right?” He asked in a small voice, shoulders slumped. “Creation and destruction… they compliment each other, that’s the way its supposed to be!”

“Adrien, I know, I’m sorry…” Nino began, and Adrien _knew_ he was sorry… but he also knew he didn’t want to hear what would come out of his friend’s mouth. “But there’s no guarantee—you said it yourself, you two were playing it by ear. Maybe Mari wasn’t supposed to end up with the box and that mixed up everything.”

“You don’t know that,” Adrien mumbled, but his shoulders were slumped in defeat and his gaze was fixed on the ground.

“That’s right, _we don’t know_. We don’t know anything! Are you really okay putting her at risk by just jumping in and telling her everything? Because let me tell you, to start with—she’s not gonna believe you.”

Adrien remained silent.

“Listen, she _just_ came back to Paris. There’s time to plot things out, right? We’ll figure things out, okay?”

Nino ruffled Adrien’s hair awkwardly. Adrien appreciated it. They were in a comfortable silence for a moment.

Suddenly, Adrien’s head snapped up, making Nino start. Before he had a chance to ask what was wrong, Adrien darted towards the door.

“I have an idea!” He called, not looking back as he disappeared out the door.

Nino just watched the air where his friend used to be, despondently. He really, _truly_ didn’t want to see Adrien go through the same thing again.

His gaze trailed back to the school picture they took on the last day of lycée. He and Alya, Mari and Adrien. Back then, they had honestly believed it was going to last forever.

Nino sighed and stood up, closing the door Adrien left open in his hurry before going to the kitchen to do the dishes.


	2. To Plan

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for the great reception guys!

As soon as Marinette stepped into the ground floor of her apartment building, she shed her heels. They were lovely, ecological and fashionable, so she liked to keep the blood out of them.

When the elevator door opened, she was still removing her left heel, losing her balance and almost falling to the side. She helped but caught herself, finally releasing her foot, and looked up.

An old, small man stared at her from the elevator. Marinette felt the urge to hide anywhere. The old man laughed, however, and held the door open for her. She laughed a bit, too, and stepped inside, both shoes dangling from her right hand, the files she had to order tonight pressed against her chest. The old man looked at her sideways and smiled kindly.

“New to the building?” he asked. His voice was soft and comforting, and it somehow made her relax.

“Yeah, just moved in.”

“Your accent is incredible, how long have you been in Paris?” he asked.

“Oh, I grew up here,” she smiled shyly. “I just left for a while to study in Nantes, but I came back for work a couple of weeks ago.”

“Well, happy to have such a nice young girl in the building. I hope to see you again soon…?”

“Marinette,” she offered her right hand, shoes dangling from her index finger. As she realized, she pulled it back and smiled, embarrassed. The old man laughed again, and there was something infectious about it.

“It’s a pleasure meeting you, Marinette. I hope to see you again, soon.” The elevator doors slid open.

“Me too, Monsieur…?”

But the old man just stepped out of the elevator with no further conversation, and Marinette would’ve stared at his receding back quizzically, had it not been that her phone began ringing in her purse. She soon forgot the exchange and dug in her bag, hands full, and dropped the files on the ground.

She groaned.

By the time she managed to pick up every paper, she had missed her floor, and the elevator continued upwards. She had to wait for it to go all the way around to finally get off on the fifth floor, thankful that she didn’t run into anyone else. She stepped off and walked down the hall to her apartment, opening the door.

The apartment was rather small, but exactly fitting for her. It had a small living room that contained the kitchen with no walls to separate them. There was a single bathroom, just by the entrance door, and her room was at the end of the living room, right next to the desk she had bought on discount.

Marinette dropped the files she’d been carrying on the desk and put her shoes down, plummeting to her chair and looking up. She sighed as her gaze drifted out the window.

It was almost nine, and she had just gotten out of work. Her eyelids were heavy, but she had to organize this week’s meetings, so her bed might as well have been a thousand miles away.

Alya had gotten her this job, so she couldn’t slack. Not that she was one to slack, anyway, but it was a bit of added pressure. She owed Alya everything, at this point, and there was no way that she was going to let her best friend down.

And _boy_ , was Alya her best friend. Marinette didn’t think there was a single person in the history of humanity that would’ve done so much for someone as Alya had done for her.

Then again, Mari’s circumstances had been rather odd.

Marinette sighed, pressing her back against the chair. She rubbed her eyes, exhausted, before straightening her back in determination and opening the file in front of her.

Her phone rang.

“Oh, thank god,” she murmured as she fished it out of her purse. Of course, there was only one person who would call her at this hour.

Well, one _sane_ person.

“Hey, Alya.”

“What’s up girl? You sound tired,” Alya’s voice was clear save for the sound of chopping in the distance. Mari supposed she was making dinner.

“Yeah, I just got home from work. It was pretty crazy today.”

“I believe it. You had that fashion show, right?”

“Yeah, the _Gabriel_ one,” Marinette said, remembering the wonderful dresses she had seen. Her hands itched for her pencil as designs floated around her head.

“Run into anybody interesting?” Alya asked, and there was something strange about her voice.

“No, I—wait,” Marinette furrowed her brow. “I did. We went to Collége with Adrien Agreste, right?”

“Collége and Lycée. You had the hugest crush on him.”

“I did?” Marinette frowned. She guessed he was handsome. “Well, he seemed nice enough.”

“No, Mari, I mean you were _obsessed_ with the guy. One time, you broke into his house to sign a present you forgot.”

“I did _what?_ ” Marinette all but squeaked. “And you _let_ me?”

“Are you kidding?” Alya laughed. “Who do you think got you in?”

Marinette groaned. “Well, this week I’ve got to set up an interview with him… Is he nice?”

“As nice as he is handsome.”

“That’s a lot.”

“He’s _that_ nice.”

Marinette remained quiet a moment, trying to remember. She’d had a crush on him? She supposed she could believe it, if he was as nice as Alya said. Marinette took a deep breath. Her past was a mystery, but only to her. It was like a poorly written story.

From the day she met Alya, until the last day of lycée, Marinette’s past was completely erased from her mind. She could not remember a single day of collége or lycée, although everything she had learned seemed somehow to be in order, as she didn’t have any particular deficiency in academics.

The first memory she had after this—Alya had named it ‘the time skip’—was of waking up on the ground next to the Eiffel tower, a then unremembered Alya leaning over her body, shaking her awake with panic in her eyes.

She had been taken to doctors, of course. Marinette was pretty sure she had had every test run, every specialist seen, and at least eight psychologists’ worth of studies, but no one had managed to figure out what happened to her. In the end, most of them simply wrote her off as inventing her symptoms, while a few of them agreed that it was Post Traumatic Stress Disorder.

When she had woken up, people told her these amazing stories about superheroes saving Paris, beginning right after her time skip. Alya had shown her pictures, headlines, newspaper clippings… but nothing rang a bell. Everything about it was completely gone from her mind.

The few doctors that _did_ believe her agreed that it was PTSD caused by a final event—whatever had left her on the ground in front of the Eiffel tower. They said that her mind probably retroactively erased everything to do with the events that led her to that point.

Of course, her parents had lost their minds with worry—they figured Parisian lifestyle was too much for her, and so, they packed up everything and moved to the countryside in Nantes, where Mari’s “delicate psyche” wouldn’t be disturbed.

When she had announced that she’d be coming back to Paris, her mother had been the first to object. It was a long process that took months, but eventually both her parents agreed, and she’d been sent to live in Paris in a modest apartment with the job Alya had gotten her.

“Mari? Are you still there?” her mind snapped back to reality.

“Hm? Yeah, sorry. Drifted off a bit.”

“You must be seriously tired. Why don’t you sleep?”

Marinette sighed. “Christine wants this week’s schedule by first light. It shouldn’t take long though.” She thought for a second. “I actually have to arrange an interview with Adrien.”

Alya laughed a little, but there was a melancholic strain to it that Marinette couldn’t quite place.

“If fourteen year old you knew this, I’m pretty sure she would faint.”

“Really? Then I suppose it’s a good thing that I can’t remember him.”

* * *

Adrien’s feet were the only thing peeking out from under the bed.

His room was uncannily organized, of course. Some habits were hard to break. He knew exactly where that box was, he just wished he hadn’t made it so _difficult to get to_.

His fingers grazed it, and he pulled a bit more under the bed until he could grasp it, and he called out in victory.

Adrien pulled back from under the bed rather ungraciously, and it would’ve been a funny image, had anyone been there to appreciate it. Finally, he sat on the ground, cross-legged, and rested the box on his lap.

It was a boring, nondescript shoe-box. In hindsight, Adrien could’ve very well acquired a safebox, but it seemed rather excessive. Satisfied with its simplicity, Adrien opened the box to find everyday objects that meant nothing to anyone that wasn’t him: a scarf, a comic book, a charm, and exactly what he was looking for.

He pulled out the notebook with such care, it could almost be considered reverence, moving the box from his lap, he opened the first page, doodles of tiny cats and ladybugs everywhere. He smiled fondly at them as he passed the page into the first entry.

_Today is Adrien’s birthday!_

Adrien ran his fingers over his name in beautiful, round letters. He wondered how many times had she written it before he realized?

It was her—it had always been her. Bravery and kindness and strength. She was like a beacon of light, calling the way back home. But he had been blinded by her reflection in the form of Ladybug, and he had sidetracked. But in the end, he had managed to get back to both for the most glorious moments of his life.

Adrien brought his attention back to the entry—not that he needed to, he knew every single one by heart. He had read them a hundred times. But there was something about reading her words that made him happy—that made him remember that it had been real, and that Marinette had loved him at some point, and maybe she still did, deep down.

_We fought the Bulleur, which happened to be Nino. It was a bit strange, literally floating up in a bubble towards the sky. We almost plummeted to the ground, but with a little bit of creativity and the Eiffel tower, we managed to get out of it, no sweat._

Adrien remembered that birthday. Of course he did.

He had had his first party, and his first present.

His mood soured a bit. Yes, his _present_. The scarf he had thought was a thoughtful gift from his father. The father who clearly couldn’t be bothered to take care of his own son’s birthday. The father who made sure that his birthday was interrupted by a villain.

Adrien shook the thought away and went to his favorite part of the entry.

_Adrien looked so happy wearing the scarf. I don’t know what happened. The card must’ve fallen off, but in the end it doesn’t matter. He thought it was a present from his father, and it made him smile. That’s all I needed to see. I’m just happy he liked it._

Adrien fingered the corner of the page. He still kept that scarf, of course, it was in the box with his prized possessions. He just wished he had known about its origin sooner. He shook his head. Now wasn’t the time to be thinking about this.

He took a deep breath, preparing for what he had to do now. It was strange, he thought, that he was being so apprehensive, when in reality he didn’t even need the diary. He knew everything by heart.

But it was still like ripping part of his soul out.

With a deep breath, he tore the entry from the journal. Standing up, he gently folded it into the envelope he had acquired for this very reason, Marinette’s new address –which he had gotten by less than savory means—scribbled on top of it.

Adrien pressed the envelope against his forehead and took a deep breath.

Please, let this work.


	3. To Meet Again

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My dumb ass is using characters from Two of Us.
> 
> Yes, that means David will eventually make an appearance :^)

Marinette was late for work. Again.

Well, it wasn’t that she was _usually_ late for work. In fact, she had never once arrived a single _minute_ after she should, but waking up late meant that she had no time for breakfast and would have to leg it to catch the bus.

And that’s what she did.

She more or less crashed down the stairs, holding a folder in her mouth and trying to close a briefcase with both her hands. She slipped but caught herself in the entrance of the building and rushed out just in time to see the bus pulling up at the curb.

What she didn’t see was the letter in her mailbox.

Marinette rushed, and _finally_ caught up with the bus, well on her way to work. She sighed in relief, knowing that she wouldn’t be late, but completely forgetting about the meeting she had to set up.

Between you and me, today would be a long, strange day for Marinette.

* * *

Nino didn’t always wear a hat, now that he was older. He did it once in a while, maybe when the sun was too hard, or when he could annoy someone with it.

Today, in particular, he wore it because of nostalgia.

He hadn’t removed it yet, although he was sitting at the table, and he knew it was rude. He took it off and placed it back on several times, nervous. This meeting was probably the most important one he would have for a long, long time, and he needed to do well.

Nerves nipped at his fingers. Maybe he shouldn’t have worn a cap. Maybe something funnier. Or maybe something more serious.

Crap, maybe he should take it off.

No, wait, now he had hat hair.

Stupid stupid stupid!

Was it too late to bail? It was totally cool to bail, right? They’d understand! He would come up with a good excuse about his fish dying and that would be that! And he’d reschedule because he was an absolute chicken.

But the door to the café opened, and Nino was out of options. He straightened and waited for the inevitable as the chair in front of him pulled back.

“You _still_ wear caps?” her smile filtered through her voice and her voice through her smile. He had always loved that about her. “You look twelve.”

“We don’t see each other for six years and _that_ ’s the first thing you have to tell me?”

Alya laughed, and it was all it took for Nino’s nervousness to dissipate.

Alya had this strange power over him. With a single touch, a single glance or a single word—that was all it took for Nino to become something else. She was here, and now the world seemed to be in balance, and there was absolutely _nothing_ to be nervous about!

Alya was here.

* * *

Believe it or not, Alya was exactly the same shade of nervous as Nino, she was just _much_ better at hiding it. She had changed her shirt four times—no, wait. _Five_ times. And Alya Césaire wasn’t one for nerves.

She had gone from a frilly shirt that Marinette had given her as a joke, to a dress she had for special occasions, to a work skirt. In the end, she chose a good old flannel shirt and some jeans—comfortable and practical, just like Alya herself.

She sat down in front of Nino and made a casual remark about his hat. Truth was, she _loved_ his hat. When they had been 17 she had stolen his hat for a week—he had lost his marbles until she returned it with laughter still on her lips.

She didn’t really hear Nino’s reply; she was too busy taking everything in. He was still that skinny spaghetti boy she remembered, though he had grown more of a back. His hair was cropped short, though not as much anymore, and his glasses were more of a Blues Brothers style Wayfarers.

But his smile was the same.

Alya would’ve burned villages for that smile, when she was seventeen.

Right now, she would only set a house on fire.

Maybe two.

“How are you doing?” Nino asked, the kindness in his voice just as she remembered it, but with a deeper sound. “It’s been a while.”

Six years. They hadn’t seen each other in six years.

Alya had transferred out of Paris for a journalism scholarship in Blackpool, up in England. She had been nineteen at the time, and hadn’t wanted to attach herself so completely to a relationship, especially a long distance one, so she had broken up with Nino.

She was lucky he had been willing to see her. She knew she had broken his heart.

She had broken her own heart in the process, too.

“Pretty good,” she said, noncommittally. Just then, the waiter arrived to take their order. They gave it, and there was a moment of complete, encompassing, _awkward silence_ between them.

No, this wasn’t right. There were no awkward silences between them.

Except now there were.

Nino and Alya were now different people. They were strangers wearing the faces of people from their pasts. But his smile was the same, and so was her gaze. His back was broader and her hair was wilder but deep down they were _still the same_.

That’s what she needed to believe, at least.

“When did you arrive back in Paris?” Nino asked. Alya thought about her answer carefully.

“A year ago,” she replied. Her throat closed around the words, especially when she saw him nod slowly, taking in the information. It was obvious what he was wondering.

Why hadn’t she made contact sooner?

“So, Mari came back too, huh?” Nino asked. Alya frowned a little in confusion.

“Y-yeah,” she replied. “I got her a job at _Viola_ , so she just started there.”

“Cool, it’ll be nice to see her. If she wants, I mean. I totally get it if she wants to leave the past in the past. That would be totally fair.” Nino thought for a second. “How is she doing about that, anyway?”

Alya felt her shoulders slump a little. Part of her—not that she would ever admit it—was disappointed that she was seeing Nino for the first time in six years and all he could do was talk about Marinette.

“The same way she always has. She’s coping,” Alya explained. “It’s a little easier, since Paris is so big, and she hasn’t run into anyone she knows, so there haven’t been many explanations.”

Nino was quiet for a moment.

“Did you know she ran into Adrien?”

Oh, yeah.

Alya didn’t answer. Instead, she looked at the cup in front of her. “How is he?”

“Exactly how you’d expect,” Nino slurped his milkshake. He _hated_ coffee. “He’s all but mourning on the floor over pictures of her.”

“She told me they had to plan an interview. I’m surprised.”

“Yeah, well, he offered. And you know how those people are. Total vultures.”

Alya glared.

“Uh, not you, obviously,” Nino laughed feebly. “I meant columnists and fashion writers and all that.”

“It’s still journalism, Nino.”

He sighed. “I’m sorry. I’m a little nervous.”

She felt the anger melt away, never really there in the first place. “Me too,” she confessed, and then, more upbeat, “why don’t you tell me what you’ve been up to these years? Filmography still working for you?”

Nino smiled and settled into conversation with her.

It took them less than five minutes to fall back into their routine, and for a moment Alya wondered if those six years had even passed at all

* * *

Adrien stood, arms splayed wide, as Jacob worked the final touches on his new attire. You’d think that, after all this time, Jacob could to this thing in his sleep—Adrien was _sure_ he could—but there was something to be said about appearances, and so Adrien said nothing. He had to fight the urge to sigh.

“Everything okay, Adrien?” Jacob asked meekly. When Adrien turned to see him, Jacob flushed and looked down at the pins. “Sorry, I shouldn’t pry.”

But Adrien was more than happy to share. By this point, he was sure he’d talked Nino’s ear off about the subject, so a fresh pair of ears sounded like exactly what he needed.

“Its nothing serious,” he said, “I’m just waiting for a call. A girl, if you can believe it,” he found himself blurting, and immediately wanted to be swallowed by the ground.

But Jacob wasn’t surprised—or at least he didn’t seem to be. Adrien had never been able to read him properly.

“It’s a bit unusual for you to be talking about a girl, if you pardon my boldness.”

“It’s just us, Jacob, you don’t have to be so formal.”

Jacob nodded. “So, who’s the girl? An ex?”

“Technically. Although—” Adrien thought for a moment. “Is an ex still an ex if she doesn’t know she’s your ex?”

“Sorry?”

“And, I mean, we technically never broke up—”

Jacob stared blankly at him.

Adrien caught the stare and deflated. “Sorry, I guess I’m not making much sense, am I?”

Jacob smiled kindly. “You really aren’t. It’s okay though. By the look of it, you still care deeply for her.”

“I do,” he said quietly. “I just don’t want to be overbearing, you know?”

Jacob put the last pin to his shirt. “Just be yourself, Adrien. I’ve never met anyone who doesn’t like you when you’re being yourself.”

A beat of warmth crossed Adrien’s body, and he felt entirely too grateful to have Jacob on his side. A flash of a thought came to his head, and he suddenly knew that Marinette and Jacob would also become friends, if they ever met.

That was one thing you could be sure with Marinette—she could make friends with a rock if necessary.

Jacob stood from his kneeling position. “There. We’re all done. Please be careful when taking it off, I wouldn’t want you to hurt yourself.”

* * *

“What do you mean _you haven’t arranged the interview?”_

Madame Christine’s voice boomed across the room.

“I, uh, I’m sorry! Last night I finished late and I didn’t want to disturb M. Agreste at that hour. But I’ll fix that right now!”

Christine, another funky hat on her head, brought her hand to her face, not quite touching it to avoid ruining her make-up. “I thought you said you were _classmates_.”

“We were!” Marinette spluttered. “I just hadn’t seen him since we graduated!”

“I want that interview by the end of _this_ week!” She bellowed, dismissing Marinette. “And go get me some coffee!”

* * *

Marinette sighed as she looked over the menu written in chalk on the board. She was so tired right now, that she saw the words, although they didn’t seem to mean anything to her. She just wanted to sleep right now. After getting home and fixing the papers she’d had to order, it was 3am, so she had barely slept, and now it was catching up to her.

“Marinette?”

The voice was incredulous, and it took her a moment to find its source. She looked around and finally recognized the (thankfully) friendly face that accompanied it. Her brain took a moment, but eventually supplied the right name.

“Juleka?”

Juleka, black hair shoulder length and a shock of radiant pink hair, smiled at her softly.

Of course, Juleka was pre-Time Skip, so Marinette remembered her well. She had always been quiet yet friendly, and although they didn’t talk much to Marinette’s memory, she liked her well enough.

“It’s good to see you,” Juleka said, coffee in hand as Marinette waited in line. “How’ve you been? I mean—I heard about… you know.”

Ah yes, of course she’d heard. She doubted there was a single person she knew that ignored the fact that Mari had gone cuckoo for cocoa puffs. But she painted a smile on her lips and nodded.

“I’m doing pretty well, I arrived in Paris two weeks ago, and I’m working in _Violá._ How about you?”

“I—”

“Is everything okay, _cherie_?” The voice came from behind Juleka, but this time it took Marinette less to recognize it, as if things were starting to job her memory. “Oh, Marinette!”

“Hi, Rose,” Marinette smiled. Rose’s hair was a bit longer, no longer a pixie cut, and she wore a lovely pair of earrings with the shape of a… guitar?

But Rose wasn’t satisfied with a simple ‘hi.’ She threw her arms around Marinette and squeezed her tightly, as if they were the best of friends, although Alya might be a _little_ territorial in that area.

“I’m so happy to see you! It’s been so long!” Rose gushed. Her energy was somewhat draining for Marinette at this point, but there was something nice about it. “Oh, wait, you remember me, right? I hope you remember me. You were always so sweet!”

Marinette laughed nervously. “Yeah, Rose, I remember you. We met before _collège_ , so my memory’s fine before that.”

“Oh good! It would’ve been a shame! Right Juleka?”

Juleka nodded, and somehow the peaceful aura that emanated from her could compensate the spikes of energy that were Rose’s words.

Peace and Chaos. She’d always liked that combination. There was something to be said about balance.

Marinette’s phone beeped, and she looked at the screen before groaning. “Madame Christine is going to murder me. I need to somehow set up an interview with Adrien Agreste, and I heard that’s almost impossible.”

Juleka and Rose looked at each other.

“With Adrien?” Asked Juleka.

“ _Adrien_ Adrien.” Rose repeated.

“Yeah,” Marinette sighed. “I heard we went to collège and lycée together, but that still doesn’t get me past his manager.”

Rose beamed. “Well, you don’t need to!” She pulled out her phone and pressed a few buttons before presenting it to Marinette. “Here you go!”

Marinette stared at the screen for a moment before understanding.

“Wait… Is this..?”

“His personal number, of course!” Rose smiled. “We ran into each other at a party last year and he said we could catch up, but we hadn’t had the chance.”

This time, it was Marinette who threw her arms around Rose and hugged her so hard, her back cracked.

“Lifesaver!” She breathed. Rose just giggled.

“Uh, Mari?” Juleka asked, meek as always. Marinette realized she’d perhaps overstepped her boundaries and took a step back, laughing nervously.

“Sorry about that.”

Juleka shook her head. “That’s not it… I was just wondering…”

“Can she interview you?” Rose quipped before Juleka could finish her sentence. Juleka looked abashed.

“I’m sorry?”

“Well, I studied psychology, and I heard about your case… it would mean a lot to me if I could just talk to you for a little while to work on a profile.” She peeked at Marinette from under her shock of pink hair. Marinette smiled.

“Of course! I’d be happy to! How does Sunday work for you?”

Juleka nodded, not quite smiling, but clearly pleased. “Sunday is perfect. Can we meet here?”

“Sure thing! Let me give you my number.”

The girls exchanged data before Marinette excused herself to walk away, entirely forgetting Madame Christine’s coffee. Instead, she looked down at her screen and Adrien’s phone number for a moment.

It was weird, looking at that number. There was something strange about the feeling. She felt that, after seeing it once, she could recite it by heart—like it was a song long forgotten that had slipped back into her head and suddenly it was like it was never gone. The numbers danced around her head like the letter to a song.

After saying goodbye, she left the shop, looking at her phone. There was something to be said about the nerves coiling up in her belly. Maybe these were the ashes of the butterflies from when she was young.

Taking a deep breath, Marinette pressed ‘call.’

* * *

Adrien chased around the broccoli in his plate with his fork.

Truth was, he wasn’t even hungry. But if Genevieve found out that he skipped a meal, he’d have an earful, and right now, he didn’t want that _in the least_.

Adrien tried not to be dramatic, but there were _two_ events that he could classify as ‘Worst Moment of his Life.’

The first one was the day his mother disappeared. Although that was less of a ‘moment’ and more of a continuous set of terrible seconds and minutes and hours and days with no beginning and no end. He couldn’t pinpoint where the _horrible_ became _terrible_ , nor when things stopped being _absurdly horrifying_ and they became calm again. Everything blended together in a smooth transition of abhorrence.

The second moment was that, a _moment_. It was Marinette looking into his eyes.

_I’m sorry, do I know you?_

That was enough to make him lose his mind again. He’d found her—his Lady, the love of his life—and then he’d _lost her_ in the most unbelievable way possible.

He didn’t understand at first, and it took him a moment to put the pieces together. He pulled her to the side and asked her about the box, the kwamis, and she just looked at him as if he were absolutely nuts.

When he looked down at his hand and realized the ring wasn’t there, understanding dawned upon him like a miasma of misery.

Well, perhaps he was a _bit_ dramatic.

She was taken to the hospital, of course, but at first the visits were restricted by psychiatry and then her parents took her away and… well… Adrien had The Book.

The Book, in capital letters, was something left behind by the previous guardian. It mentioned that every guardian lost their memories of Miraculouses after giving The Box (also in capital letters) up. If Marinette remembered everything immediately, well…

It could’ve killed her quite easily.

But that was six years ago. Surely, if they worked slowly through it, she would regain her memories. They just needed to be careful about it. He just—

\--his phone rang, and an unknown number popped in the screen. He blinked, several times. Who on _earth_ would have his phone number?

“Hello?” he asked carefully.

“Adrien?” the voice on the other end lit up a small spark that lit up his heart, and he was thrown back to his seventeen year old self again. ”Its—”

“Marinette,” he breathed. He could hear the nerves in her voice.

“Yeah, sorry to call you. I got your number from, er, someone,” she laughed nervously.

“It’s okay, I’m happy you have it.” He said, heart in his mouth.

Part of him expected her to confess she remembered everything and that they should meet in the Champs Elyseés to ride off into the sunset.

But that didn’t happen.

“Listen, do you remember when we met in the fashion show? Remember how you said you could do an interview?”

Adrien straightened. The interview! Of course!

“Yes, of course! Do you want to set it up?”

He heard Marinette sigh in relief. “You’d be seriously saving my butt.”

Well, she’d saved his a thousand times. Good thing he could save _her_ butt once in a while.

He really needed to stop thinking about butts.

“No problem,” he said. “Just tell me when you guys can do it and I’l fix my schedule accordingly.”

“Won’t you have to run it by your manager first?”

“No, it’s fine,” Adrien lied. Janine would have his head on a plate for this.

“Well then, how does Friday sound to you? Maybe after lunch?”

“Sounds perfect, Mari.”

There was a moment of silence in the line, and it took Adrien more than a moment to understand.

“Oh, uh, sorry,” he said quietly. “Marinette.”

“It’s okay, its just that no one save Alya ever calls me that.”

But that wasn’t true. _He_ called her that. He had called her that every day that they were together.

“Okay then, Friday after lunch.”

Adrien put down the phone and stared at the screen for a moment before looking through his pictures. He found one of Marinette smiling at the camera with an ice cream on her hand, back from when they were seventeen, and placed it on her caller ID.

Now he had her number.

One step at a time.


	4. To Find the First One

In case anybody was wondering, Madame Christine was _not_ happy with her lack of coffee. However she quickly forgot everything about it when she heard Marinette had gotten the interview, just as she had hoped.

“Oh, your friend said you’d be an asset, but I could _never_ imagine how much!”

This assessment irked Marinette to no end, considering that all she had done was go to stupid collége with someone she couldn’t remember, but she was entirely too wise to voice her discontent.

“Friday around five, Madam. He offered to come here for the interview. I supposed you’d be okay with that.”

Madame Christine, as always, had to move the rim of the newest (and frankly strangest yet) hat, and looked at Marinette appraisingly.

“What do you have on him?” She asked curiously. Marinette blinked twice.

“Excuse me?”

Madame Christine sat back on her chair and pressed an index to her lips, thinking. “Adrien Agreste has been notorious for dodging interviews from this magazine for months, but it takes you all of five minutes to get an inside with him.” She eyed Marinette thoughtfully. “So, what do you have on him?”

Marinette was at a loss. Exactly how should she answer a question like that? She hadn’t mentioned her amnesiac past to anyone at _Viola_ , as it seemed absolutely nobody’s business, but now Madame Christine was facing her with a question she couldn’t dodge.

What did she have on someone like Adrien Agreste?

She supposed they had been friends, at some point. Alya said she’d had a crush on him, but she never mentioned reciprocity, so it was most likely one-sided. So why would he be so interested in her?

The thought of last night’s conversation lingered for a second in her mind. He had called her ‘Mari’ quite naturally. It had felt strange, though not entirely unpleasant, but something inside of her had set the alarms off. Alya was the only one who ever called her Mari---at least as far as she was concerned.

“Nothing,” she replied, finally. “We’re just old collége friends.”

Marinette didn’t have to look at Madame Christine’s face to know she didn’t believe a word, but fortunately, she didn’t press. Any further conversation was interrupted by the arrival of what could only be described as a tsunami of people, all talking over one another, trying to get Christine’s attention. Christine, in turn, snapped her fingers once and Marinette knew her cue—in a moment she was by her side, taking notes at everything Christine said, her mind completely forgetting possible yet unlikely blackmailing scenarios.

* * *

When Nino got back home, his stomach was in knots. They had seemed to unravelled as he spoke to Alya, but as soon as she was out of sight, they coiled up again, ready to strangle him.

What had she thought about him? Was she happy to see him? Maybe he shouldn’t have brought up Marinette.

He pressed his back against the door and sighed, removing his cap and running his fingers through his hair.

“You look like you got run over by a car.”

The assessment was as unsurprising as the commentator herself. Alix stood in the kitchen, cereal bowl in her hand and spoon in her mouth. “What’s wrong?”

Through some strange ways of destiny, Nino, Alix and Kim had ended up living together. Nobody was entirely sure how that had happened. Nino was grateful though, they had both been invaluable throughout the years.

Nino didn’t answer, but, Alix nodded anyway.

“Ah, Alya.”

Nino turned his head and stared blankly at her. “You’re a witch.”

“I’m not a witch.”

“You totally are,” the voice came from the living room, and Nino turned his head to find Kim raising his head from the sofa.

Alix eyerolled. “I’m not a witch, you doofuses.”

“Exactly what a witch would say,” said Kim, and Alix tossed the roll of paper towel at him. Unsurprisingly, she hit him square in the head. Alix had an uncanny ability to never miss.

Nino was _pretty sure_ Alix was a witch, and he was only _mildly_ intimidated.

“Yes, Alya,” he nodded, and slid to the floor. Alix nodded, but didn’t put her bowl down.

“What? Did it not go well?” She asked.

“No, that’s not it.”

“What? She find someone more handsome? Wouldn’t blame her,” Kim teased. Nino shot him a glare, and Kim understood, raising his hands in surrender. “Sorry, not the time.”

“Things went pretty great. That’s the thing. It was like no time had passed.”

Kim stared at him. “Isn’t that… good?”

Nino rubbed his face. “No, its not. Because time _did_ pass. She left. I had to learn to let go of her. And now she’s suddenly back and everything in me wants to run back to when we were nineteen.”

The only sound was Alix chewing. “I see.” She swallowed. “So what’s your plan?”

He turned to her. “Actually, I was sort of hoping _you’d_ have one.”

“What on Earth makes you think _that?”_

“The witch thing,” Kim quipped. Alix shot him a glare, but Nino nodded.

“Definitely the witch thing.”

Alix rolled her eyes. “Let me see what I can come up with.”

* * *

Wednesday night, as was tradition, Juleka and Rose would have dinner at Madame Couffaine’s house—boat. Yes, she still had the boat.

Rose chatted amiably away, making M Couffaine laugh more than once. She had always been fond of Rose and her free aura, which was why she fit so well with the family.

“Oh yeah, and we ran into Mari—” Rose stopped short and grimaced. She and Juleka exchanged a glance, and then both slowly turned to Luka, who looked mildly surprised.

“You ran into Marinette?” He asked. M Couffaine did her best to recall Marinette.

“Y-yeah, in the coffee shop. Sorry, I shouldn’t have brought it up.”

But Luka shook his head with a small smile.

“I have nothing but fond memories of her. How is she doing?”

“Surprisingly well, considering the memory thing,” Rose said happily. “She remembered us! That was nice. She said she only forgot things from collége onwards—” Rose covered her mouth, trying to trap words that had already escaped.

Luka just nodded. Rose tried to come up with something to say, but came up blank. Luka didn’t seem bothered though. At least not to the naked eye.

But Juleka knew her brother better than anyone in this world. He had loved Marinette deeply when they were younger, and their break-up had been hard on him. He never resented her, however, and Juleka couldn’t find it in her to resent her, either. But hearing this must’ve been hard for Luka.

“I’m interviewing her on Sunday,” Juleka said. “Would you like to come?”

Luka looked at Juleka, and she saw the small glimmer of appreciation in his eye as he smiled.

“Yeah, I’d like that.”

* * *

Marinette arrived home after a long day at work, although this time, she did manage to pick up her mail. She was a little surprised that people _still_ sent mail, but hey, what can one do, right?

She flipped through the letters—propaganda, bills, flyers—until she reached a small, white envelope with her name cleanly written upon it.

She flipped it a couple of times, vainly searching for a return address, but the only thing that stared back at her was her own name. She dropped the other letters on the desk and sat down in her bed, pulling her legs up and crossing them.

She opened the letter. Handwriting that looked _remarkably_ like hers was scrawled across the page in pink ink.

_Today is Adrien’s birthday_

She frowned.

Adrien? As in, _Adrien_?

_We fought the Bulleur, which happened to be Nino._

Bulleur? What the—

Was this sent to the right address?

She looked over at the envelope again. Yes, her name was still written neatly. This was for her.

Nino, Adrien’s birthday… She kept on reading, hoping to find some sort of explanation for it all.

_I had to break into Adrien’s house. I can_ not _believe I did that! But, Alya is convincing when she puts her mind to something._

A few days ago, Alya had mentioned something like this, hadn’t she?

She kept on reading the letter. It was clearly the entry to a diary. But whose?

Finally, she reached the last lines

_I don’t know if I’ll ever tell him about the scarf. He looks too happy wearing it thinking it was his father’s present. And that’s really all I need._

_I guess love really is funny, isn’t it? At least Tikki thinks so._

Finally, the signature: a small, distinguishable and _unique_ M.

This was her diary.


End file.
